


Detached from Reality

by ASOUEfan



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Chains, Confessions, Dom/sub, Dubcon Kissing, Dubious Consent, F/F, Fingering, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Breakdown, Minas getting her claws in you goood, Mind Manipulation, Non-Graphic Violence, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Reader-Insert, Situational Humiliation, Stripping, Whipping, or starting to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29777520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASOUEfan/pseuds/ASOUEfan
Summary: Entirely monitored and filmed from every angle, Outpost 3 is the hit reality tv show on air - except no-one in the inside knows they're famous. Live streamed all hours of the day, the nation watches on as the unwitting participants - who fully believe an Apocalypse has happened - starve on cubes, suffer on Venables rules, and prance around in Victoriana.As the psychologist monitoring the well-being of those taking part, you're forced to intervene when Ms Venable has two Greys shot for 'unauthorised copulation' - but find yourself trapped in the Outpost alongside them and subject to Venable's heavy handed punishments.From behind your bars, you begin to forget what is real and what is not, and start believing Ms Venable really is taking care of you, which is just what she wants you to believe.
Relationships: Wilhemina Venable/Original Female Character(s), Wilhemina Venable/You
Comments: 18
Kudos: 58





	1. Prologue - The End

Safely outside the perimeter fence, you and the production team are staring intensely at the wall of monitors. There are two new arrivals that you need to observe - it’s always a testing time - and the room is on edge. You can feel it in the air, like when a weather storm is readying to hit, and the pressure drops and dampens your skin, the moisture creeping into your pores. Except right now it’s sweat dripping down your neck, not warm monsoon rain bringing welcome relief. 

“Adjust camera 2.”

The young directors Jeff Pfister and Mutt Nutter banter back and forth behind you, and only occasionally give orders. So when they do bother, the cameramen tend to roll their eyes and ignore them anyway. What do a couple of coked up Hollywood kids know about making good TV?

On your knees is a lined notepad, participant bio’s at the ready. New arrivals provide a wonderful chance to examine group psychology in action, and you’re keen to see how the members of Outpost 3 take to them. Both Timothy and Emily are young, but smart in different ways and bring an energy that the current residents are already losing. But they’ll need to navigate established group dynamics and find their places in the social pecking order - which of course makes great TV.Will Coco feel threatened? Will Andre befriend the new kids? You can see the headlines splashed across the gossip columns. It’s easy to forget these are real people, not actors. This is different to every other TV show - to _all_ the shows you’ve worked on previously, because unlike any other show, _they don’t know this is reality TV._

As far as the inhabitants of Outpost 3 are concerned, there’s been an Apocalypse.

“Pan out - “ You murmur to the camera man next to you. Two of the Outpost guards are stomping out with a pair of struggling Greys. “What are they doing…” You murmur. The armoured and rad-sealed hummer carrying Timothy and Emily is only just pulling up to the arrival gates. What the hell is going on? “Who are these two? Does anyone have eyes on Venable?” You look around the room. “Why are there two Greys on the surface without suits on?”

“Keep on ‘em!” Mutt and Jeff are suddenly pay attention - seeing dollar signs.

“Oh my God look they're pulling out guns!”

“This is rad man!” Mutt cheers. “Rad? Get it? Like radiation!”

“Boom!” Jeff chortles.

“Wait is this real?” Your heart starts to race. Are you the only one taking this seriously? The Greys are shoved to their knees. They're begging, crying, and your new arrivals are witnessing it - strolling past led by Ms Mead like some amusement park house of horrors. 

Timothy and Emily are _meant_ to be getting their first hand experiences of walking through the thick radioactive fallout - or the smog being churned out into the grounds by blowers. They don't know the big yellow suits and broad clear panels are actually so all the cameras can capture _their_ faces clearly on screen, rather than to help them see out.

But this final leg of the journey is key to cementing their beliefs about the bombs. Rattling the cages and having a little dust fall is one thing; when they were trapped in the temporary cages its easy to fake. But not out in the open. That takes work - and they _must_ believe this lie that the production team have set up for the experiment to work. But instead they’re panicking. They won’t be taking it all in if they're focused - like you are - on whatever is going on.

Two shots ring out.

“No no no - !” You cry and smack your hand on the TV screen. This is live feed.

Timothy gasps in horror, collapsing sideways as he struggles to compute what he’s witnessing. Emily freezes in place. But you leap from your chair ripping your headset off. “Jeff! Tell me that didn’t just happen?” You swing one of the monitors around and jab your finger at it. “Did you see that?”

One of the two floppy haired idiots shrugs. “Beats me -“

“We don’t get involved, that’s the _point_ sister!” Mutt grins.

This is insane. You were brought on to monitor the health and wellbeing of these unwitting participants. There _is_ a scientific basis to it - that’s how you've been roped in as psychologist. But just because the show is funded by some unofficial government off-shoot called The Co-operative, doesn’t mean they're above the law. There _has_ to be rules, ethics - like any social experiment. Past examples have shown how wrong it go if these vital safety protocols are missing; the Stanford Prison Experiment is like first year psych-ethics class. “Two people were just shot! If that just really happened and they're executing people - I mean I have to call a halt to this.” You’d laugh from just the fear and adrenaline coursing through you if it wasn’t so serious a situation.

Mutt shakes his head. “Nu-uh.”

“You wanna stop this gold? It’s not even been two weeks - “ Jeff exclaims.

“Exactly and societal order is already breaking down. Leaving them to their own devices in the name of science is one thing but this crosses a line. It’s unacceptable!”

“So what if they're shot, it’s not like they were main characters,” Jeff snickers. He flaps his arms at you like you’re ruining all his fun. But this isn’t fun. This isn't reality TV. This is real lives and real people have just been murdered live for entertainment. “ _Whaaat_ come on our ratings are gonna skyrocket!”

“The networks are going to take you off the air!” You yell, “This is serious. I need to get in there and give them trauma counselling right away.” The room has fallen silent. No-one in the production team is jumping in and backing you, despite their grim expressions saying they're not happy either, they don’t agree with this, but it’s their jobs on the line if they speak up.

“The Co-operative said, no interfering, and they're the ones stumping up the money,” Mutt complains at your complaining, like you’re an irritating fly in his soup that keeps swimming off the spoon and won’t get out of his way. It’s just two random people, he seems to say, their loss an unimportant one from the cast. “But hell if you want it be my guest.”

“I think you’d look hot in one of Venables corsets though.” Jeff eyes your body up and down and lolls his tongue out like a salivating puppy. 

“Cut the crap Jeff, you have a duty to stop this, _now_. I wouldn’t be doing my job and more over I couldn't live with myself if I didn’t -“

“We hired you cos the lawyers said we had to,” Mutt cuts you off, tossing his head to get the ridiculous yellow blond bangs from his eyes, unscrewing the lid of a small bottle that he proceeds to position up one nostril. You roll your eyes at him, the unwelcome long sniff of ingestion sounding through production room.

You fold your arms stubbornly. “I won’t be a part of this.”

The government signing off on The Co-operatives ‘experiment’ - while dressing it up as a future bio-hazard readiness plan - is suspicious in itself. Kidnapping, quarantining, and wrongly imprisoning a bunch of its own citizens so the effects of long term confinement and co-habitation can be monitored, so the government can learn what it is the human race needs to survive in the event of a nuclear war, is _already_ morally and ethically dubious. But you understood the principle behind it to do good, so took the job.

But what about these people? Don’t they have rights too?

Mutt pinches his nose and shakes his head a bit blinking and getting his vision straight after that initial hit subsides. “So go do something about it, whatever, that’s your job isn’t it?” He snatches the headset from your hands and slips it over his head instead. “Okay kids we’re back let’s get some shit-hot shots of the newbies!” He talks into the mic rubbing his palms together. “We got their bedrooms wired up right? For when she strips?”

“You expect me to go in there?” You wilfully ignore the crass way Mutt is talking.

Jeff sighs and dangles his arms cluelessly at his sides. “We expect you to get out our faces already. If you wanna make them talk about their problems so you can sign on the dotted line at the end of this then fine. Go do your thing.” He flops into his chair and opens a can of soda. “As long as ratings are good and the money is rolling in, I’m down.”

You stare indignantly around the room. Cowards. Sitting cosy in their jobs and mumbling a disagreement isn’t good enough when you _all just saw_ two Greys shot in the back of the head like animals. You can’t ever un-see that. “Fine. I’m not going to just sit here.” 

——————

You don’t bother to suit up. What’s the point in propping up the radiation lie when you’re about to tell them everything. There will be some deprogramming to do, some trauma counselling and perhaps the participants will already have a degree of PTSD or anxiety from their confinement. But 2 weeks is easier to work with that 2 years - which is how long this madness is meant to last. Though if Venable is allowed to carry on unchecked the way she is, there won’t be any inhabitants left by the end of the experiment to counsel. With your staff pass you swipe the pointed metal gates open, which sluggishly creak to life and let you through. You tap your pass on your palm anxiously, and as soon as the gap is wide enough, you run across the compound waving your arm in front of you to clear the smog as you go. The smog is thick and making your eyes burn, but another swipe to the door of the underground bunker set that’s been constructed and dubbed Outpost 3, and you’re into the elevator, panting and rubbing your watering eyes.

“Perimeter alert, theres been a breach.” The Fist stares up at the red warning siren, blaring and causing the dinner-table of Guests to jump and scatter or cling to one another at what could be coming for them.

“Let’s go.” Mead points and a section of her security staff branch off from their positions, into formation behind her. She only briefly glances back to catch Ms Venable’s eyes before they set off. Mead knows Venable will accept nothing less than a neutralised target. Be it a pigeon or a person, the safety of the Outpost is paramount.

Ms Venable stands from her chair in measured movements, keeping both hands steady on her cane as she calls the raucous to order. “I suggest you all go to your rooms. Until the level of threat has been established, that’s where you’ll all be safest.” Ms Venable projects her instructions calmly down the table, not needing to raise her voice to be respected.

“Shouldn’t we all stick together?” Dinah makes the mistake of questioning, her reprimand a swift cane strike on the floor and glower from Ms Venable. “As you wish,” she concedes and ushers her son out of his seat too.

“Mallory! Get to my room and hide last seasons Laboutins!” Coco barks at her assistant, who breaks away from the other Greys with a nod and scampers from the room. 

“Babe they’re last season? Whose gonna want them?” Gallant snorts as the pair hurry away arm in arm.

“Maybe because they're the only ones left on the _planet!”_ Coco squawks from her bedroom doorway, then slams the door making everyone jump all over again.

_“Oh God she's great - I_ _love_ _her!” Mutt claps his hands at Coco’s theatrics, ripping open some gum and tossing it in his mouth. “Find the camera in her room I wanna see her sew those shoes into her corset like they're fucking russian diamonds!” The cameraman munches his potato chips and guides the camera with a joystick to follow Coco around her bedroom, keeping her in the centre pane._

A square hallway of smooth concrete funnels you down toward the de-contamination chamber (or what is masquerading as one). Stepping inside the circular room you have to wait for the lights to change red to white, then step onto the metal grill in the centre to be blasted with air - the whole sequence automated - before the second door is able to open. “Ugh come on,” You mutter, flicking the edge of your ID badge with your thumb nail.

But then door opens, and Mead is through it, gun raised, on you like the soldier she's trained to be. “Who are you? Where’d you come from?”

You’re smiling and heaving a thankful breath. You made it down here and now you can stop this madness, before anyone else gets hurt. “I’m from out there, I need to speak to Ms Venable - I need to speak to all of you! My name is - “

“Where’s your suit?” The First and Mead exchange worried glances. “You’re contaminated.” The Fist reaches to the wall for their bird-like suit, and the safety of its oxygen mask. “Back up.”

Staring at the two security, you raise your hands and slowly back up. You didn’t think the illusion would be so ingrained in them so quickly. “I’m not, there’s no radiation up there, its a hoax.” You explain slowly, 

“Mask up!” Mead commands the men behind her, who dutifully bring out portable head masks and breathing apparatus fitting it over their heads. “Fetch my Geiger!” Mead never takes her eyes off you, or lowers her gun. Her eyes are menacing - she means you harm and you’re beginning to panic.

“Listen to me please, there’s no need for any of that,” You insist. “This isn’t real, look! Look at my badge - I’m a psychologist I’ve been working for the team that are running this.” But they’re not listening, they’re making space for more soldiers to crowd the room and you've backed up as far as you can go, cool metal pressing into your shoulder blades. “Please…,” You stammer.

_“Oooh check it out! She’s freaking out now look at her face!” Mutt whoops back in the production._

“You two, take the arms, we need to scrub her down,” Mead orders, pointing an accusing finger in your direction like she’s setting her dogs on you. The two guards march forwards and roughly grab a hold of your arms your clothes securing you in their grip.

“What! No - no get off me!” You fight, yelling as they haul you through the blast doors and down the ramp toward the white-tiled decontamination room. There’s no way you’re letting this happen. Not with the nation watching, not with your slime ball bosses watching - not ever. It’s unnecessary and barbaric- especially when you _know_ there isn’t any radiation to be cleaned off! “You’re not listening to me it’s not real! There’s no apocalypse, you have to believe me I work for The Co- “

“Quiet!” Mead heavily backhands you, making your head whip to one side and shocking you into silence. There are hands on you but you need a minute to focus your vision before understanding that slide of cold metal is scissors - and you’re clothes are being cut off. “The radiation sickness must have gone to her head. It’s already worse that I thought.”

_“Duuude zoom in zoom in!”_

_“D’ya reckon they’re gonna give her the full metal broom rub and tub?”_

_“Fuckin’ hope so, always wanted to see her jugs-“_

_“Bet they’re juicy - “_

_“God I love this show! The Co-operative are fucking geniuses man!”_

“Aahhh!” You scream, making grabs for your clothes, for material to cover your dignity as it’s literally stripped away. The two guards turn you and throw you against the wall - and just a you’re about to turn back the ice-cold blast of water pummels you back against the tile. “No! No stop!” You sputter and spit up the water that’s blasting up and down your back, then your ass and thighs, before they turn you face forwards and the freezing water hits your front. It makes you cave and curl over when it hits your belly, but they drag your shoulders back up. The water blasts your chest and you scream, it stings on your sensitive nipples, your whole self bared to them - and the rest of the fucking world - though you try not to think about that. For now the water is lowering and smacks you square between the thighs. You yelp and jump and wriggle from the bursting of sensations the water creates as it fires at your most sensitive of places. Your clit throbs painfully - against its own will for the pressure and sensation the cold of the water is too much, and it’s not meant for _this_ \- but it’s still stimulation. You’re gasping and coughing up water, their voices barely audible to you.

“We have to minimise the threat she poses to the Outpost. How does Ms Venable want it handled?” The Fist asks, pointing to the Guards to get scrubbing. Two short bristled metal brushes come toward you.

“Easy. She fails the Geiger, we kill her.” Mead answers flippantly.

——————

Face down and naked on the white tiled floor, you snivel in staggered breaths. The pressure points of your body are numb, the hard floor pressing back against you. The front of your feet. Your knees. Hipbones. Chest. Your cheekbone too because you daren't turn your head to the other side to relieve it. It’ll be leaving a mark, red and swollen from the prolonged pressure - but you’re already covered in scrapes and burns from the metal brushes, so one more swollen cheek wont make a difference. You heave a cough, and whimper at the pain that ripples through your body.

The sound of heels on tile echo through the chamber. And then you hear it. A cane. The slow tock-tock between her steps. Inches from your nose, the toes of those heeled lace-up boots appear.

“She’s clean.” Ms Venable asks, by way of a statement. Venable knows her loyal head of security would not invite her down into the chamber and risk her life, if she hadn’t made damn certain you weren’t contaminated.

“Yep, all clear. Not a gamma particle in sight, thanks to my team,” Mead says proudly, grinning like a panting pit bull waiting for praise. You’ve seen that sadistic smile of hers on camera, and you feel sick to your stomach just _knowing_ she's sporting it again now. 

Ms Venable hums, then carefully treads the still-damp floor inspecting the length of your naked body. “It’s lovely work,” Venable announces, sending a pleased smile in Meads direction. “So who is she?” Venable turns her attention back down to you. Her lips bunch curiously, eyes roaming the patchwork of grazes and bleeding scrapes inflicted on your skin with fascination. Her pulse flutters at the sight. _You beautiful, wretched creature._ Venable controls her cheeks from smiling again, instead flicks her eyes in demand at Mead - still waiting for an answer. “I said, who is she?” Venable asks again, more pointedly.

“You.” Meads boot collides with your ribs. “Ms Venable asked you a question.” The force of it winds another cough from your chest, and you pant fighting the pain of it.

“I-I’m … from the outside..,” You stutter, spitting the words against the tile. “The Co-operative have lied to you.” Dragging your arms forward one by one you push up, wobbling into a sitting position keeping your chest covered with one arm, legs curled up to cover the rest.

“Go on,” Venable coaxes.

“It’s a lie, the apocalypse, the Outpost, all of it. It’s a test …,” You struggle to explain, and undo the work that had been done to make them believe in the first place. The fake news reports. The alerts coming only to their phones. The sounds of bombs hurtling through the sky blaring only from speakers on drones, continuous green fog pumping around the compound and a couple of sick carrier pigeons later, it was enough to have them believing anything.

Giving your scientific opinion on subliminal messaging and visual cues and your studies of cults - what led people to believe what they were told - you had been part of creating this lie. Now you had to undo it.

“I was brought on to help monitor the well-being of the participants and since …since you -“ Your voice trails off, Ms Venables jet-black orbs predatorily focused on _you_ now. “Did you really order those Greys to - to be shot?”

The smallest of smirks flickers in the corner of Ms Venables lips. “I will not tolerate the flouting of rules.”

“But - but you killed them!” You shout incredulously. Even from your vulnerable position on the floor, the rights and wrongs of it don’t change. With any luck, the Co-operative will already be on their way in here, now you’ve exposed the truth and ruined the delicate balance of a closed environment which the experiment is so reliant upon.

“And without me, they would have already been so. I provided them opportunity, which they squandered.” Ms Venable cleverly counters, stoic in the belief of her actions as justified.

You can’t stand and have a conversation at regular height - lest you give your greedy bosses more tape of your nakedness to wank over at home; but it feels awfully belittling being forced to argue your point - the truth that is - from the floor. “The Co-operative are watching they're filming _everything_ , Ms Venable - “

“And here come the lies,” Venable drolls, clacking her cane firmly and dismissing such ideas.

“It’s true, they’re filming all of this and you will be held accountable by the end of it!” You bark back. She’s not taking you seriously, she’s not listening at all and where the hell are the Co-operative already? Suddenly a gloved hand smacks across your jaw. “Aarh!” Mead looks to Venable, silently asking if she could administer another.

“Your lack of manners _astound_ me,” Ms Venable tuts, casting her eyes around the room. The door is still open, and a tension settles in the corner of her eyes. Had your words travelled? Any possibility for unrest must be handled severely. Ms Venable knows she alone can manage this ark of humanity, balance it’s wants versus it’s needs, and as in any community - troublemakers must be segregated.

Her eyes fall to you again, her mouth dry. Wilhemina refuses to believe what you’ve said and yet … what if she _is_ being watched?

Complete and total control, she was told - and she took that ball and ran with it. The clothing, the rules, the hoarding of supplies away from the main population. It’s in their best interest. If there is any shred of truth to your protests, she would have been stopped by now. The Co-operative wouldn’t accept the taking human life, it’s her job to safe guard it not torture and torment the Guests but it’s not as though the Co-op are storming the gates demanding her resignation as Administrator.

So quite simply, you’re telling lies.

“What do you want me to do?” Mead prompts. She’s itching to kick you again.

Ms Venable takes a deep breath, and settles the cane in the centre of her palm. “She cannot be released into the general population, she’s too dangerous.”

“Got it - “ Mead unclips the handgun from her belt in a swift practised movement that seems to keen.

“No.” Venable stays Mead’s hand with the briefest of touches - making Mead stare at the gift of such a holy thing being bestowed as physical affection - and gives Venable her full attention again. “Take her below. Chain her up. I need to find out if there is any truth to this, fantasy.”


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

You’ve never been so glad to see a crinkly white plastic all-in-one - akin to those that home decorators or hazmat teams wear - as you are now. Mead rather cruelly doesn’t let you even turn around as you step into it and zip up the body. You flick out your long hair so it’s dripping that cold water from your scalp to the plastic, soft tones of plink, plink, the only sound.

“Don’t try anything stupid.” Mead waves you ahead of her - sandwiching you between two guards up ahead, and two guards behind.

You’re sure you catch someone peeking out of their bedroom door and over the rail. This level of security is overkill when your only threat to them is knowledge, but all the same it produces what Venable wants - the Guests fear you and you give your submission. You walk between the formation of Guards and don’t bother trying to run, peering around the set as you’re led barefoot through the central hall, past the fire and down a long corridor toward the stairwell.

“I’m not stupid.” You mutter childishly, tramping down the beige stone steps. You’re not sure you remember this on the blueprint of the Outpost construction. You stare up, the circular stairwell curving upward as well as downward. Yes, _up_ , to the bedrooms, you tell yourself. What the hell is waiting for you going _down_? “Where are you taking me?”

“Someplace secure.” Mead pushes the door wide and shoves you inside, finally holstering her gun which falsely gives you the impression you’re out of danger.

Just as you begin to relax, the Guards grab your arms and hoist them up and you watch on terrified as they clasp metal cuffs around your wrists, as though these aren’t your arms and this isn’t really happening _it can’t be happening_. Mead thumbs a switch on the wall and the chains ratchet up to pull your arms high and taught. “What the hell is this?!” You cry, yanking at the chains unable to bring your arms down or even touch your hands together. They're splayed wide apart, and the cold metal is already warming to your flesh and rubbing against the bones in your wrists. “Get these off me!”

“I don’t abide cursing,” Ms Venables smooth commanding voice appears from the darkness. You whip your head around this way and that searching for her, the long oval shaped room providing plenty of shadow for her to lurk in. “Ms Mead you may leave us.”

You manage to draw your eyes from her just long enough to see the back of the door closing. Mead’s obeying like always and you’re left alone with her. Wilhemina Venable. The woman who would so blithely order a persons death and who at the end of the world would selfishly hoard up stored supplies for herself, is now the one person sharing the room with you. “This room isn’t on the construction plans,” You stammer, adjusting to how your arms feel just dangling from the ceiling, and the strange ache that’s settling in the muscles there.

“No, I had it added later, to my own specifications,” Ms Venable responds, with an honesty you’re not expecting. She emerges the shadows and approaches you slowly - gliding across the wooden floor as graceful as a swan. You might never know of the torn wing that’s preventing her flight, were it not for the angle at which her shoulders slope. “How do you know it wasn’t on the original plans?” Venable pauses a few feet from you, glancing up to the squares of light that shine through the grill above your heads. She lowers her eyes slowly to level with yours, then lifts her eyebrows, daring your challenge.

“Because I work for the Co-operative!” You implore her to hear you. Shifting your weight between your feet it’s like treading water, but she’s the only one who can keep you afloat.

“As do I.”

“Yes but - “ Instinctively you step toward her but the restraints drag you back. “You think you’re in here protecting everyone from an apocalypse but they lied to you. You’ve all been lied to!” You argue passionately, cursing at how she's got you chained up like an animal. Suddenly you’re seized with the awareness that your humiliation is likely being filmed. Even down here in Venables secret lair - there could be hidden cameras in the corners and in the candle votives - so her taunts and lies are broadcast to a nationwide audience.

Or is this secret, separate dungeon of her own design - _all_ her own? Unobserved. You’re not sure which prospect frightens you more.

Ms Venable swings her cane between your bare feet and leans impossibly close as she steps in, watching the beads of water gather on your forehead, until one bead breaks from the group and rolls down tracing the contours of your face. “How do you know, _you_ have not been lied to?” She reaches a hand from her cane, only her fingertips free of the black leather gloves. Wilhemina strokes the lost trickle of water away with the pad of her thumb, then rubs her thumb and first finger together smearing the water away.

Her hand turns mid-air, and for second you recoil - but then the backs of her fingers graze your cheekbone. “You’re mine, down here …,” Wilhemina whispers, taking those same fingers from touching your clammy skin to touch them down her own cheek, closing her eyes. As though you had embraced her, cupped your palm to her cheek she feels your imitated affection just as strongly.

You snap your head away, glaring in objection. “I walked across the compound with no radiation suit on and I didn’t get sick! Doesn’t that prove there’s nothing out there?”

Ms Venable chuckles in amusement. “Hardly.” She backs off a step and instead chooses to circle behind you where you struggle to keep her in your eyesight. Once again you’re reduced to an animal relying on the sound of her cane bouncing off the walls to tell you where she is, how close or how far from you. “Ms Mead decontaminated you, of course you haven’t gotten sick.”

“What can I say that’ll prove to you I’m telling the truth?” You roll your head to one side. This is ridiculous. You’re the one with the truth here, you want to help end this and release the other participants, get them out of here. What Timothy and Emily had tragically witnessed bears heavily on you. Though you’ve had no hand in choosing whom the Co-operative scooped up and dropped into this experiment, or in placing Ms Venable as Administrator, you feel a degree of responsibility for what they’ve already suffered because of her. “I can tell you …. fuck I don’t know I can tell you who’s on the other side of those cameras? The names of the directors - Jeff Pfister and Mutt Nutter.” You give them up in a heartbeat. “Or - or how we did it? With the news reports and the -“

“I am no fool,” Ms Venable growls, her lips at your ear and her presence immediately behind you making you jump. “Words, do not bear the same value as _action_ ,” She hisses, snaking her fingers into your wet hair and sharply tugs your head back. “When I ordered the deaths of those two Greys, do you know what happened?” You yelp and whine, your neck bent back at such an angle she has complete dominion over you. You can feel her lips brush your cheek and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. “All the others, fall in line.” Ms Venable presses a chaste kiss to your pale cheek, and nudges her nose against yours, indulging herself in the feel of you when you’re helpless to fight her off. “They too knew the rules, the wording of them, and tried to doubt the power of those words.”

“Stop this - “ You choke.

Ms Venable suddenly throws you head forwards again and lets go. “But with action? Now they hear me.”

You cough and heave deeper breathes trying to regulate your blood oxygen again. You toss your head about a bit, shaking yourself off to keep your wits about you. She’s assaulting your every sense and it’s so dark in here save those candles you’re already a little disoriented. “Why won’t you believe me?” You beg softly, unable to do anything but watch as she returns to stand before you, a severity in her expression you pray will soften.

“Whose to say I don’t?” She teases.

“So you _do_ believe me? Then let me down let me go! The Co-operative won’t like what you’ve done down here Ms Venable.”

Her upper body waves as she laughs, longer and lighter than you’ve ever heard. “Oh you don’t see it, do you?” Ms Venable thumbs the blue zipper between her thumb and forefinger, then peels the it down to your hips, pausing before lowering the zip the final few inches to the peak of your thigh. Cool air hits your bare body beneath the plastic, sending goosebumps to ripple across your skin. “If the Co-operative are watching us … right now,” Ms Venable breaks your delusion down gently, widening the plastic suit to bare your chest, your body to her for a more direct, intimate inspection.“If they care about us at all, they wouldn’t let me do this…,” She purrs as her hand slips inside the plastic of your suit and palms your breast, capturing your already peaked nipple between her fingers. “Would they?”

“Get off me -“ You pant. Your mouth dries as she continues teasing your nipple, so expertly in fact you realise this can’t be her first time. Heat flushes your otherwise cool skin, each prick of her nails shooting right to your core, and your breathing shudders. “You shouldn’t -“

“I can and I will.” Wilhemina remains calm and brings her hand lower, tickling a line between the swell of your breasts, down your sternum to your navel, then deeper.

“Nnghh….,” A moan tumbles guiltily from you lips. She parts you with her fingers in a V and tickles your already swollen clit. “Fuck yes -“

“As I thought,” Ms Venable judges triumphantly. Her finger continues to circle and flick your clit though she shows no emotion as she does it, gives no outward sign of the fire her ministrations are creating in you. Instead she makes a show of looking left, and looking right. “Do you see anyone, rescuing you?” Ms Venable mocks you.

“They’ll be here,” You pant as your abdominals clench, instinctively tightening -just itching to come. _Release_. But standing like this it’s near impossible to and you groan and stamp a foot in frustration. If Jeff and Mutt are watching this they’ll be in fucking heaven witnessing your torment and how you’re _loving_ it. “They’ll step in.” You’re sure of it. You know it.

The faces of your coward co-workers haunt you. Two people were killed and they didn’t get up from their chairs. You squeeze your eyes shut. If cold blooded murder hadn’t compelled them to action, what makes you so sure _this_ will? Or are you just another reason the ratings will shoot up? Your certainty starts to falter. Will the Co-operative actually step in, at all?

“Call it, an experiment.” Wilhemina teases in amusement, turning your own declarations against you as she curls two fingers and thrusts inside you suddenly, claiming you as hers. You gasp and groan headily, bucking your hips into her hand shamelessly wanton. “If The Co-operative make it here, journeying their way through the undoubtedly hellish conditions, to tell me they dislike my methods, then I will believe you.” Her upper lips flickers barely containing a growl as she fucks you hard, only once, twice, her one-two rhythm slow - and purposefully so. You’re eyes are begging her but you can’t bring yourself to say how you want it - want _her_ \- despite how twisted this is. You ran into the Outpost with good intentions, and within hours you’re chained up in her dungeon whining for more of her fingers inside you.

“You _can_ you can believe me,” You breathe, clinging to your convictions.

“If however, as I suspect - “ Ms Venable exhales slowly as she draws her fingers back out again, lifting her hand close to your face showing you her slick fingers as evidence of how easily she had tamed you. Your wet arousal has smeared onto the leather of her gloves, ruining them staining them and she hisses in disgust. “Look at this.”

You’re panting, lips parted and hungry. “Ms Venable I -“

Ms Venable wipes your wetness down your belly, cleaning her hand off and continues. “However if the months indeed pass and no-one comes for you, then we will know who is right.” Suddenly she grabs your jaw, digging her fingers in dragging your face close to hers. Wilhemina leans and noses about your cheek, her eyes fluttering closed breathing in the scent of you. “And you _,_ will know who you belong to.” She whispers, and presses a gentle kiss to your ear.

The clack of her cane reverberates off the walls as she walks away, and you catch yourself staring after her.

——————

Everything aches. Your shoulders cramp and knot, though your wrists of course are taking the brunt of it. In the hours that pass after Ms Venable has left you - the room swallowed up by darkness - you shout, scream and yell your lungs dry. But she doesn’t return, and nor does anyone else hear you. Every candle has been doused bar one, and the grill overhead closed off.You’ve learnt about this at uni - sensory deprivation as a form of torture - when you had that module on criminal psychology.

You’d never expected to be the victim in the scenario.

The lone flame she allowed you to keep barely flickers, the air stale and still down here. But the light still draws your eye, and from your central hanging point you stare mesmerised at the speck of light, wondering how long it takes a candle to burn down, if you can use this to estimate how long it’s been. Your mind searches for sane thoughts to hold on to.

At some point later, maybe twelve hours or so you guess from the candle, the single thought now overwhelming your mind isn’t one of escape, or somehow drawing her into debate when she comes back - she _is_ coming back - it’s that you urgently need to pee.

Shifting your weight back and forth you march on the spot, and wiggle, and twist looking around you for where you remember the door is. Though you can’t see it in the dark you catch yourself praying any moment it’ll fly open and Mead will escort you to a room. It’s starting to shift from that general oversized bladder ache to actual _pain_. “Ms Venable!” You call out again for the first time in hours. “Ms Venable please I need- I need the bathroom!” You wait, and squeeze your legs together like a child. “Ms Venable!”

Why isn’t she answering you? How can she abandon you down here? What if no-one else knows … if there really isn’t cameras even the Co-operative won’t be monitoring and _fuck_ you really need to pee and -

A slow warm trickle runs down the inside of your thigh.

“Fuck - shit,” You curse and squeeze harder you cheeks burning in humiliation. “No no come on,” You whine and try to hold it in; but now your pee has begun to leak it’s not going to stop. Your muscles lose strength, and for the first time you’re forced to give in to the situation in which you find yourself. You close your eyes, release a long defeated sigh, and let go.

You’re wetting yourself.

Hot wet humiliation runs down the inside of the plastic suit, and drips over you feet puddling on the floor. It’s not long before your tears trickle too to join it. Staggering a deep breath in you try and gather yourself, not move your feet for then you’ll be wet underfoot as well will just add to the discomfort you’re already fed up of.

Then it happens. The door - first a jangle of metal keys on the other side - and then a long sweeping shaft of light beams on the floor. Ms Venable’s silhouette cuts a sharp outline in the doorway. Your chest swells with relief, and despite the mess you’re in, you’re smiling. “Ms Venable!” You exclaim through your tears, sniffing and laughing at your fears that you’d be left here.

But then a second pair of boots stomp in after her and march right up to you, Ms Mead eying you up and down and smacks her lips. “Oops, looks like she's soiled herself. That’s just dirty.” Mead denounces your weakness shaking her head.

“Help our guest out of her wet things,” Ms Venable instructs, closing the door behind herself.

“Wait what -“ You shiver, and shimmy around trying to keep Mead in your sights, paddling in your own urine. “Get off me!” But Mead snatches a handful of your plastic suit and stabs it with her flick knife, splitting the material top to bottom as if gutting an animal. She bites the blade between her teeth, and with both hands rips the sides wide until she’s peeled what minimal clothing you had right off you.

“Done.” Mead snatches up the shreds of suit and bundles them up in her arms feeling sick from the stench of your piss on them.

Venable watches on until Mead is finished. “Better,” She murmurs. “No need to hide yourself, is there? You have a wonderful body.” Ms Venable sucks her lower lip and burns her gaze down your every peak and curve. She tightens her grip of the silver crow headed cane, rubbing her thumb into it’s eye to relieve herself of the desire to touch you. _It’s too soon_ ,Wilhemina scolds herself. She moved too quickly last time and it was simply impatient of her. But now, there is at least reason to strip you, for your own good. Can’t have you in wet things now, it would only chafe your skin and prune your toes from standing in liquid for a prolonged period. She jabs her cane onto the floor twice, and Mead is kneeling around your ankles with an unimpressed huff mopping up your piss with a towel.

You steel yourself against the humiliation, of her too-obvious gaze taking you in, scrapes and decontamination bruises peppering your pale skin with bruises. “I demand you let me go.” You hold your head up as high and proud as you can. You’re a professional. You have a job to do.

“Oh,” Ms Venable chuckles, glancing away briefly and plays her cane between her fingers. “You _demand?”_ Such a bold and confident demand hasn’t been made of her since a certain robotics company, that Wilhemina is almost excited for the sport of it. “I see twelve hours in solitary has done little to dampen your determination.” She gives Mead a flicker of a nod, then returns her eyes to yo. “You still believe The Co-operative to have set this elaborate stage to test us, like proverbial monkeys in cages.”

Her instruction to Ms Mead is so quick and vague you pay it no attention. “Yes. Until yesterday I was part of that team,” You try to explain again, now she’s listening - or at least you think she is. You might be naked and covered in pee, but your mind isn’t _that_ fuzzy that you can’t get through to her. “I was hired to make psychological profiles of all the participants and predict group behaviour. My PhD was in deprogramming cult members so they’d hope’d I could do the same this time, monitor everyones responses in real time then help reintroduce you all to the world afterwards.”

“And now you’re here.”

“Yes.”

Wilhemina takes a long breath in through her nose, remaining on the spot rather than coming close as she had before. “So you fix people. Their broken minds.”

You huff at her skepticism. “I _am_ a psychologist.”

“That may have helped you, before the bombs,” Ms Venable parries, her intelligence shining through her usual wall of barbed comments. “But do you know … how to break into someone’s mind, in the first place?” Her cheeks pinch as she seems to preen pleased with herself, something you’re missing and not understanding, and she can see that confusion flit across your face.

“I don’t …,” You trail off. It’s then you hear something new in the room. A slithering, snaking sound dragging then cracking like a lightening strike. You crane your head around, and your fists ball in panic.

“Ms Mead, let us begin the counter experiment.” 

Ms Mead is wielding an old fashioned whip, flicks a few practice cracks over the floor making your feet jump and dance, thinking she’s going to catch you with it if she's not careful. But then she looks to Venable and you look around too and Venable is nodding - giving her security guard permission to begin. “What? Wait no - “ You hear the sound of the whip snapping, before you feel it. Licking up your back it explodes a strip of white hot pain across your skin. “Ahhhh!” You scream, the surprise and pain and shock twisting in together.

“One.” 

You gasp and fight the chains pulling tearing yanking to get free. “No no please!”

Mead raises her arm and cracks the whip again, her aim perfect. This second lash crosses the first and the point-that point where they cross is where the worst of the pain pools.

“Two.”

You cry out each time, louder and more strangled than the last as Mead whips you again, and again, feverishly enjoying being let off lead to do this.

“Gods sake stop screaming like that my ears are ringing,” Ms Venable sighs derisively, “After all, you’re going to be saved by the Co-operative, aren't you? Seeing as they’re watching all of this -“ She waves he hand pretending to be resigned to the fact her fun will be brought to a premature halt. “So it's not like I’ll be counting very high.” Ms Venable smiles. “If they come, that is. Nine? Are we on nine, Ms Mead?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

Ms Venable tocks her cane. She can be patient. “Continue.” 

—————

A cool flannel is being pressed to your forehead. It draws a waking breath from your chest and you slowly come to, squinting as you open your eyes warily. The soft flannel is on your cheek now, the nape of your neck, dabbing around your face tenderly. “There you are…,” Wilhemina purrs.

The sound of her voice you snap awake. Venable is standing right in front of you and you jerk back bleating in fright. “No! No more … _please_ ,” You whimper, the pain in your back assaulting your mind into submission again, now you’re awake and aware of it. How long had it gone on before you passed out? Your memory of it is fuzzy.

“Sssh…,” Wilhemina blows soft reassurances you don’t believe, not from her. She dunks the flannel into a silver bowl of water she has perched beside her, wrings it out a little, then offers it at your lips. “Drink.”

Tears well in your eyes, but the water on her flannel is cool and the first to touch your lips in over twenty-four hours. So you open your mouth, and suck on the flannel and push from your mind how terrible and submitting this is. Simple, joyous relief at having a drop of water makes you moan softly and close your eyes again, giving over to it. You’re so thirsty, and she’s giving you a drink and -

Wilhemina takes the flannel away again, and you whine and blink your eyes open for answers. You watch her dunk it once more, like a dog trained on a treat. “Good girl,” She smiles, giving a small nod of permission as she holds it aloft. It’s slightly above where you can reach your mouth to this time, then she squeezes her grip tighter - so it drips the water into your parted lips and dribbles down your chin. “Tell me, are you still so convinced the Co-op care about you?” She asks quietly, laying the flannel down and folding it into a square. She dries her hand down her dress, right hand still needing to balance on her cane while she works with her left.

Your gaze falls a little, tears welling in your eyes dejectedly. You’re not sure. They’re letting this happen to you, after all. Jeff and Mutt and The Co-operative. Maybe they're watching.

Maybe they’re not. But it’s their fault. Your breathing staggers as you try not hold in your anguish. “I don't know.”

She unclips her glove, slowly sliding it off - frees her skin of the leather. Her bare hand trembles as it raises to your cheek, _really_ touching you this time. Her skin on your skin and Wilhemina’s voice cracks overwhelmed by the feeling of it. “You don’t need them,” She says emphatically. She leans toward you - bringing her palm to the nape of your neck and keeps you still - to rest her forehead forwards against yours. Wilhemina closes her eyes, the moment intimate and fragile and you swear those are her tears on your cheek not your own. “They’re not real.”

“They’re not real,” You pant, closing your eyes too.

“That’s right.” Ms Venable nods, her thumb stroking your neck from where she grips you still, and you can feel her lips ghosting yours and you think she might kiss you - but it never comes. Instead she draws a few inches back - her stare resolute and inescapable. “You have me now.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a long chapter, 5k, but I'm sure you won't mind ;)

Chapter 3

Assembled in the dining room, the residents of Outpost 3 are settled in their chairs for evening cubes, but not settled in themselves. Since the alarm blared a few days ago, Ms Venables notable absence has sparked intrigue and conversation; even when she _is_ present she’s distracted. Staring into space. Fiddling with her cane and ignoring their conversation - not with her usual disdain - but instead as though Ms Venable is forgetting they’re even there.

Between Timothy and Emily, and a few subtle rounds of rock-paper-scissors, eventually Emily accepts her boyfriends challenge and looks to Ms Venable, taking a deep breath. “So who’s in your office?” Emily gently asks, laying her napkin neatly on her lap pretending the question to be a casual, off-hand one.

Drawn from her thoughts, Ms Venable rolls her gaze across the table. “I beg your pardon?” Her elbow is resting up on the arm of the chair, idly fingering the back of her pendant earrings while trying to recall if _you_ have pierced ears. Perhaps you might wear matching sets, make a statement to the others that you belong to her.

“The alarms went off before. Someone came inside.” Emily repeats her question - albeit with different phrasing.

Ms Venable and Ms Mead share a silent stare down the table with one another. Ms Venable sucks in a long frustrated breath. Why can’t she simply be left alone with her thoughts? Her preoccupation on whether your ears are pierced or not may sound trivial were it to be said out loud, but to Wilhemina such details are everything.

“Who else is here?” Timothy adds weight to the line of questioning, hoping to prop up his girlfriends quest for knowledge. The whole table is lured into silence at the prospect of finding out the answer. 

Ms Venable taps her cane on the ground, the hollow wooden sound a familiar one to all in Outpost 3, and it quashes any notion of further questioning. “All questions will be answered in due course.” She isn’t going divulge any information or tolerate any insubordination at her dinner table. “Eat.”

After dinner drinks have been added to the evening’s rhythm; proceedings that start with the usual6.30 cocktails in the music room, then cubes, now ending with the proper parting of the sexes. The boys are required to retire to the smoking room, though nicotine free e-cigarettes are neither appealing nor palatable, while the women play cards at Ms Venable behest, or until she decides otherwise. 

Mallory sacrifices a queen, then takes a card from the pile. “Are you really not going to tell us who this new person is?” She’s not as afraid as the others are; things are already shit for her as a Grey anyway, what’s Venable really gonna do?

“Yeah it’s been months and we could do something _exciting_ happening around here,” Coco whines in boredom, and not understand the stupid card game. Mallory leans over and points at Coco’s cards telling her which one to play.

Ms Venable bunches her lips somewhat, debating what will still their wagging tongues. She smoothes her fingers down the side of her taught, precisely coiffed hair, then lays it in her lap again. Taking time before answering not only gives herself time to construct an adequate half-truth, but also to ensure all eyes are trained on her. “A member of The Co-operative arrived, but she remains in quarantine. I cannot say if, or when it will be safe for her to be released,” Ms Venable divulges, enjoying every drop of their devoted attention. It warms her chest. In those seconds they had all waited with baited breath, for _her_ , ‘that cripple Mina’ Venable to speak. So much for playground taunts now. 

“Why is she in quarantine?” Emily pipes up immediately, subconsciously touching her neck in worry. The wide lilac ribbon around her neck feels hot and heavy, it’s ivory miniature tugging uncomfortably. “Is she …?”

“The risk of cross contamination remains great. But she is well, thus far.” Ms Venable presses a card to the table, the successful strike of a Queen against a lesser card. She leans back with a proud and preening smile. Wilhemina rubs her thumb and first finger together, your tear long gone but the ghost of it remains, the salt staining her skin like your arousal had. Her eyelashes flutter briefly closed, and touches the pad of her thumb to her lips. Oh, to taste you.

“Wait, do we have to go into Quarantine? Timothy and I came later but Mead tested everyone -“ Emily gasps suddenly.

Wilhemina rolls her eyes. “No.”

“Have you been visiting her?” Mallory takes another card and sips her mineral water, dreaming it’s a margarita and this is a fancy gambling joint. Being included at the table with Purples makes it important for Mallory to have her presence _known_ in the conversation; so if Coco is too stupid to ask the right questions then she’ll do so herself.

“With the proper precautions. Though it remains inadvisable.” Ms Venable replies haughtily, this line of questioning unsettling her. She doesn’t want them getting lofty ideas of searching for you, thinking they might say hello through some quarantine window. “Speaking of, I should ensure our new guest has received her rations for this evening.” Ms Venable lays her cards carefully onto the green felt playing area, and takes up her cane.

“You’re throwing the game?” Mallory says puzzled.

Ms Venable’s brow hardens, her posture stiffening as she rises to her feet. “I have many responsibilities in the running of this Outpost, that far outstrip the importance of a simple card game,” She snaps, the pain that twinges in he back from the change of position as irritating as the continued sufferance of these imbeciles.

“But it was your fucking idea - !” Coco spouts childishly.

The slap of Ms Venable’s gloved hand is swift and hard across Coco’s cheek. From standing, Ms Venables strike is perfectly lined up, and had really gotten a good swing behind her arm. “Keep a hold of yourself,” Ms Venable snaps, cursing her short temperedness. The Vanderbilt girl doesn’t deserve to be marked - even bruised lines from a glove are valuable gifts when given to your pet - but Coco is nothing of importance and would never understand what it takes to earn such affection. Wilhemina brings her hands together atop her cane as she gathers herself, and shuffles out from between the chair and table. “Play shall resume shortly.”

Ms Venable stalks out of the arched doorway and down the hall, light footed compared to her usual gait. But the excitement is already fluttering to life in her belly, the anticipation of seeing you. It’s been torture for her too, the waiting, but it’s a necessary component of any process such as this. Deprive you, then provide for you.

To build a better world, first it must be broken.

————

MEANWHILE

Every time your eyelids begin to droop, succumbing to the exhaustion that penetrates your every pore, giving up and giving in seems like the only course of action left. But the moment your head drifts and lolls to one side, the lights flash on, their white brilliance painful as it yanks you from the darkness you’ve been used to. Then comes the music. Not just music, the heaviest screaming metal rock that can’t possibly be words in all that _noise_ and now you’re screaming your ear drums are splitting and -

it clicks off. You’re back in darkness, and silence, and you’re breathing so hard you’re shaking. Your muscles tremble from the adrenaline still fizzing round your body like a firework, twisting and dancing, exciting nerves until it’s energy is extinguished.

It’s happened too many time now to count. Days and days of this since Ms Venable had Mead whip you. You’re beginning to think, one more, one more time and that’ll be it. You can’t take it. There’s only so much a person can take. Everyone has their limits, and then what? 

There are soft patters. Like paws on the ground skittering quickly in one direction, then slowing and changing direction. You turn your head to the sound, staring at a wall of solid darkness - how can somewhere be so devoid of light? It’s that true sort of darkness that’s so thick you can’t even make out your hands above your head. It swallows everything up, except noise. What creature is in there with you? Has it crawled up through the ventilation system? Fuck, you're hallucinating.

But what if it bites you? You hold onto the chains and wonder if you should lift your feet up. Or make keep still and it won’t see you. You’re not sure if you’re really hearing it or if the sound is inside your own head.

Theres a jangle of keys. Your attention snaps up. There’s muffled voices and you grip the metal of your chains tightly and pace on the spot. She’s back! They’re back - someones back they came for you they _came_.

Your chest is heaving hurried breaths and you’re staring wide eyed at the door waiting for her; but instead a storm of black clad guards march in and straight towards you. You pull back, but your restraints rub in the the sores around your wrists, a whine clawing up from your throat at the stinging. “What’s going on - “

Mead shuts the door behind her, producing a small china plate from behind her back with a sickening grin. “Ms Venable sent me to bring you supper. Lucky you.”

You mouth is parched, but the prospect of nourishment instantly excites your tastebuds. “…food?”

“That’s right. First meal in days. I’m going to let the restraints loose, now don’t you try anything,” Ms Mead warns, and flips open the cover of the control panel, inserts a small silver key to activate the mechanism, and presses her stout thumb onto the button. Mead keeps the small plate balanced in her other hand, though she's too far back - hidden in the shadows - for to see what is on the plate. A dull, cranking sound echoes around the room and slowly but surely you feel the stretch on your arms lessening, looser and looser until you can lower your arms for the first time in days.

You groan and wince, the sensation oddly painful. Your limbs have gotten used to a single, fixed position, and now they’re being given freedom. The chains go slack and as their support is released, your legs have to do their jobs - and all of a sudden you’re realising how weak you’ve become - when your legs give way. You fall forwards, knees hitting the ground with a crack “Aahh!” You cry out, too slow to catch yourself, your knees and shins taking the full blunt force of the fall.

“Now!” Mead yells, throwing her arm forward like she's tossing a football, sending her men in. They herd towards you. “Don’t let her get away!”

“What - !” You lift your head just in time to see three - no _four_ pairs of legs, Mead’s team of Guards rushing for you, salivating like rabid animals hungry to pick apart a carcass. You push up on weak arms to catch one guards gleeful expression. His fist swings down from up high, slamming powerfully cross your cheek, throwing you to the floor. “No!” You cry out, then someone is yanking you up by the hair and his fist flies at you again, smacking square into your nose knocking your head back. You eyes swim and colours dance in your vision, before the pain bursts in your nose. “The fuck …?!” You cough, blood trickling down over your lips.

“Feels good doesn’t it? Letting off a little steam.” Mead claps in glee. You try to smear the blood from your mouth, but a second later you’re knocked over, shoulder hitting the ground in slow motion. You groan and roll over, curling up like a petal closing against an early spring frost, when you feel a boot to your gut. Then a kick in your back.

“Hell yeah -“ One agrees.

“We owe you for this!” Says another, giving his next swing to your gut an enthusiastic _oh yeah!_ You flail and writhe in their grip, being thrown back and for across the floor from one punch to the next.

Your mind shuts down.

Ms Venable’s guards are literally beating you from all angles, taking out their tension, their confinement and frustration on you. One stamps on your ankle, another pins his knee into your shoulder while he punches you across the face again, and again, none of them slowing.

“No thanks necessary.” Mead flaps her hand with a modest smile. “We did what we had to do to subdue the prisoner.” They show no sign of stopping. “Aaand _enough_!” She hollers, and the first of the four guards straightens up, flexing his fingers and inspecting his knuckles.

“She was being quite a handful.” One of them laughs, and gives your foot a nudge with the metal capped toe of his boot. You twitch, but barely move. Playing dead is the only defence you have, which you remember vaguely is some kind of self-protection. That if your body is limp then landed punches do less damage, compared to if you’re all tensed up.

“You got that right. Lucky I brought all of you down here with me.” Mead smirks, tossing her head and telling them to back up, now a well trained pack of wolves and not the rabid beasts they were when they began their assault. Ms Mead drops to a crouching position and gently lays the plate down, the china clinking inches from your face. “Your rations. Half a cube. I ate the other half.” Mead lowers her voice as if whispering this cruel secret to you, but it’s just pretend. They’re laughing, you can hear it even though your ears are ringing.

You stare at the plate, and the strange jelly cube sitting on it. You’ve seen them on the screen of course - when you were watching on from outside - but being face to face with something supposedly nutritious has you questioning. “Fuck you …,” You gurgle, then cough up gloopy dark blood, staining your lips with it.

Out of sight you hear the door swing open again, a slight breeze of cool air blowing in across the floor as the mean leave. It hits you in the face and chills the still warm blood that’s oozing from your nose. And from the corner of your mouth. And from the gashes on your limbs and god knows where else.

“Huh.” Mead pushes on her stumpy yet muscular thighs to stand, then she steps closer to you. You tense up thinking she's going to kick you too for good measure, but then, torturously slowly, Mead presses the thick rubber sole of her boot over your cube, knowing you can’t do a damn thing to stop her. It squishes into the grooves of the boot-tread and disintegrates, her snicker echoing around the oval room as she steps off the plate again. “Oops.” The fake apology mocks you, for the act is cruel enough.

Even after she’s gone, the door locked and the room as still and as dark as a tomb, you haven’t the energy to move. To get up and try the door or prise the chains from your wrists. Physically ruined and mentally ripped to pieces, you’re a shred of who you were a week ago. Or a few days. How long has it been? Does it matter, when time has no meaning, and the fundamentals of human survival are being kept from you. Food. Water.

They don’t want you here. Jeff, Mutt and the Co-operative aren't stopping them. You’re totally alone, and broken, and sick and hungry and tired beyond anything you’ve ever experienced. You roll onto your back and just lie there, hallucinating images in the darkness above you, tears trickling sideways from the corners of your eyes as you watch the figures dance to a tinkling piano all of your own subconscious.

_You have me now._

Ms Venable talks to you, her voice but a spectre in your mind. But she's there.

 _Where are you?_ You whisper, only your lips moving for no sound comes out. Your eyes drift closed, and succumb to the dark, the pain, and to never opening your eyes again.

———————

Wilhemina is glad she’s alone on the stairs. Needing to take them so slowly isn’t something she likes others to witness, lest they judge her weak for the lack of spring in her step. She always places the cane down to the next step first before taking it, and keeps her free hand brushing the beige stone wall to ensure she has support on both sides. Luckily the descent down to your secure chamber isn’t a long one, especially when all she is thinking about is _you_ , and not the co-ordination of her limbs.

Tramping in the opposite direction, Ms Mead is on her way up, and pauses as she passes her boss. Mead clears her throat, shifts her weight and hooks her hands in front of her - the military training as strong as ever.

“Is it done?” Ms Venable asks, her voice deep yet melodic. It echoes down the chamber of the stairwell, and though Venable doesn’t flinch, Mead looks uncomfortable about the potential of being overheard.

Ms Mead shuffles a little closer before answering - checking up the stairs for nosy Purples or Greys that creep behind corners like they can’t be seen - before muttering, “Yeah. She’s unconscious. The boys had a good go at her.”

“Good.” Wilhemina draws a slow breath in through her nose, enthusiasm brimming in her chest. Her pasty cheeks pink up with colour. In a few short minutes she’ll be with you, and can start rebuilding what has taken such little time to break. Well, perhaps not break, but your personality has certainly cracked and fractured, like a pane of glass, that puts you at your most fragile. Too much and Wilhemina would shatter you for good, too little and you would remain weak. She has to mend and daub those jagged edges - turn fissures into strong bonds, until the surface of you was brilliantly smooth and no-one might see the work she’s done underneath to create the final product of you.

Ms Venable takes the next step - already risking a smile to set free on her cheeks - when Mead looks like she’s ruminating on something but hasn’t the stomach to come out with it. “You have something you wish to say?” Ms Venable quirks an eyebrow at her loyal guard, bemused at the display.

“It’s just ..,” Mead attempts, looking she’s got a fur ball, uncomfortable with whatever is stuck in her throat. “Where are we going with this? I mean, wouldn’t it be easier to just kill her?” She questions, tossing her arm back toward you door in reference. “Not that my men don’t appreciate the distraction, of course.”

The sound of Ms Venables cane echoing hollow on the stone says all she has to. The finality to the firm noise has Mead remembering her place. “Simply because a path is easier, that does not make it the _right_ one to take,” Venable reminds her, explaining just why she is Administrator and the stocky soldier is not.

“But what if she actually works for The Co-operative?” Mead whispers through clamped jaws. It’s not that she's worried. It just wouldn't be, right to be playing games with one of their own. And what if the Co-operative turn on them for it? They're the ones keeping everyone alive. “We’re making up our own rules, torturing and terrorising the guests?” Meads done a lot of questionable things in her career and not once has she gotten a bad write up for it, when duty calls she's there. But Venable might be having her work on one of their own team. It makes no sense.

“Forget, the Co-operative,” Venable gushes in a hauntingly soft voice, smiling at her second in command. Ms Mead’s eyes flit and flutter at the momentary attention, and takes a shy breath in before returning Venables smile. Wilhemina rests her hand to Meads shoulder, looking her dead in the eyes. “I give your orders, and you execute them.”

“Of course.” Mead nods, reassured, her dogged loyalty shining through. “Always.”

—————

_Tock_. Shuffle-step. _Tock_. Along the wall Ms Venable walks, and lights the white wax candles one by one, her step-cane movements smooth so she can balance the long, thin taper in her hand as she goes. She watches the flame licking the end of it, careful to ensure it doesn’t go out before she’s finished illuminating the room into a soft, orange glow.

Wilhemina waves the thin stick back and for, blowing out the flame and sets it on the table. She’s had a single chair and small console table brought in and set beside you, in which Wilhemina settles herself in, and broadens her arms to rest her elbows up. She doesn’t mind waiting for you to wake.

It’s a few hours, and Wilhemina gets restless - standing and pacing here and there - then sits again. She can’t stay too long in one position with her back and seeing as you’re still unconscious, it doesn’t hurt to self care how she needs to. She mentally goes over everything on the table, ready and waiting on you to wake. She runs the order of it, lips mouthing what she’ll do first and then second and then last maybe if you’re ready and if not then that instead. Her hand ghosts over the cutlery, the plate, the foods, the glass of water, the napkins, feeling their dull dead energy then flicks her eyes to you again.

_I’m here._

You look a mess; naked and bruised as you are. Dried blood cakes your upper lip, your hip bone, and your wrists where the cuffs have torn your skin. The other places don't have that excuse. The boots and fists of Meads men are responsible; and while it had been happening Venable could hardly concentrate on her strategic card playing for knowledge of it. Your likely screams down below in the dark that no-one could hear. But it was a necessary evil, one Wilhemina will not let weigh on her conscience.

A groan breathes from your lips. Ms Venable watches a scuff of movement, your fingers dragging slowly over the varnished oak floor, flaking brittlely as you scrabble awake, finally taking a lurching lungful of air and coughing hard. “Nnnghh,” You breathe, the brush of someones touch to your bare shoulder startling you. You flap your arm to get them away, a pitiful defiance when you’re so weak. It’s not a soft touch, you peer through bleary eyes as you roll over and follow the sensation up. A well laced boot, stocking on her ankle, disappearing under long black skirts - your eyes meet hers. “You …?”

Ms Venable tuts at first, keeping the ball of her foot rubbing your shoulder. “Yes. No need to lash out at me is there.” With her back as unevenly fixed as it is, bending over would be a pain not worth enduring when you need to get used to the leather of her boots anyway. Better to start now.

“They … they -“ You croak, sitting up clutching your palm over your forehead feeling the dizziness hit.

“Come to me.” Her voice is firm, instructive but not harsh in its demand. Ms Venable holds out her hand - inviting you to take it. “Come,” She says again, under her breath, as if coaxing a frightened animal to her side. Her dark magnetic eyes seem to hold your gaze, offering a strength and a home for your weakness to nestle.

You shift towards her, pressing your hands into the floor to scoot your bare ass across the floor and inch closer to her, your movements difficult and slow. “They beat me,” You whimper, tears leaking from your eyes as you look up at her again. “They -“ You can’t even say, the whole assault is such a blur. You wouldn’t be able to pick them out a given a line-up of faces, you didn’t see their faces only their boots and meaty fists; and you know - you _know_ in some deep, instinctive, feminine part of your mind that their assault could have been worse in other ways. You press your thighs together, kneeling right up beside her, your arm trembling as you reach and nervously take the hand she’s proffering.

“Do you understand now?” Wilhemina murmurs gently, and begins to lightly stroke the back of your hand, along the lines of your bones, tracing the veins and following them around your wrist tosoothingly stroke there too.

It’s intimate, and tender and makes your chest shudder. “I …” You’re lost. There are no words in your mind, no thought that makes sense; anything, everything of your life before the last two weeks seems so long ago, it doesn’t feel as if that life was ever real. All you can remember is this room, the sound of Ms Venable’s cane, the tearing pain of Meads whip, screaming rock music and long protracted periods of empty silence.

Ms Venable clutches your hand tightly, her fingers enclosing yours. You whimper a little, it’s too tight and your skin - your body - your _mind_ is hypersensitive to the simplest of sensations. It makes you wriggle and try to pry away from her but Ms Venable is stronger than she looks, and she’s leaning down bringing her face close to yours, staring at you darkly. “You’re nothing, to the Co-operative.” Her words are laced with spite. “Worthless.” These stab in you in the chest. A gasp rattles from your ribs, this final nail in your coffin a precise, and targeted hit. “Look at what those brutes have done to you, and not a word from our benefactors.” 

“They, didn’t come.” You breathe. There’s a break in your tears. Such emotion is lost to you now, there’s only you and her and this room.

“No,” Ms Venable confirms soberly, as though she has been assigned the difficult job of breaking this news to you. “They did not.”

Your eyes glaze, losing focus on her or the room to just, bob along in the stream of consciousness that you’re existing in, with no direction or idea what happens now.

Wilhemina reaches and with her fingers on your jaw, turns your eyes back to her. “Sweetheart, even if I were to entertain your deluded notions, that this entire Outpost is watched and monitored, merely an elaborate illusion we’ve all fallen for, your own logic falls apart when you understand that no-one, is coming for you,” Wilhemina pours an unusual level of emotion into her insistence, knowing now, _now_ is the moment she has to secure your belief and bring to you to heel. If she fails then Meads bullet in your skill will be the swift end to her failures, though it won’t rid her memory of the desire to turn you, and her own abilities falling short of what was needed. “If they cared for you at all, they would protect you,” Ms Venable continues, filling your empty mind with her words. You’re gazing up at her from the floor, gentle affection still plied to your hand and you have nothing to contradict her with. You drink in her words, nodding along to this new, real truth. “The Visionaries transformed this place to house us; stocked it with enough supplies to last eighteen months, but beyond that, we’re on our own.” 

“I’m alone,” You repeat, thinking you understand.

But her reproach is quick. Then hand clutching yours tightens and her nails dig into your skin. You whine but Ms Venable doesn’t relent, instead yanks your hand and hers back to her waist, pressing both entwined hands to the laces of her bodice. “No. You’re not alone. You have _me_.” You’re half draped over her lap your breasts are pressing into her thighs with how she’s holding you. She _wants_ you, at her mercy. You’re used to being naked after such a long period of time you barely notice the intimacy of it, and simply accept it. “I can protect you,” She whispers, her gaze roaming your expression searching for that spark of submission. “Would you like that?” 

You don't know. Do you? Is there another way or, would you even know how to any more? Ms Venable pets you, stroking your hair and gosh it feels _so glorious_ you stop fighting your tumbling muscles and simply, lie your head down in her lap. “Everything hurts.” You sniff, comforted by her continued combing of your hair with her fingertips.

“Answer the question,” Ms Venable prompts, having to glance away from you for just a moment to blink back her own joyous tears. Look at you. At this. It’s working, you’re kneeing at her side and lying on her lap and submitting and _gods she’s actually done it._ Her bottom lip trembles, and dares to ask the final question you have to hurdle. “Do you wish to stay with me, where it’s safe? To be mine?”

Slowly craning your head from her lap again, you gaze up at her. At the smooth, tightly styled up do that exudes power. At the beautiful, antique onyx drop-earrings that frame her face. The long sharp jawline, the complementing dark-brown-nearly-black make up accentuating her cheekbones, her eyes, those wonderfully dark eyes that seduce you dangerously. All around her - around you both - is the muted burnt orange twilight of this oval dungeon and you’re ready, you want out. You want her and everything she can give you if it means safety. “Yes,” You breathe.

Wilhemina’s lips are on yours in an instant. She kisses you hard, her hand snapping around the back of your head to knot her fingers into your hair as she delves into your mouth with her tongue, and it’s only a second or two before you let her in, giving yourself to her.

“My beautiful girl. We shall do such wonders together, you and I.”

You nod to whatever she's saying, for you can’t hear her. You just kneel up and kiss her back, agreeing and submitting and kissing her, fisting her skirts and clinging on, wanting - _craving_ \- the safety of her. You're getting swept along by the warmth of her kisses and feeling _alive_ again, and you don't care one bit. 


End file.
